


I just think we should stay stuck in the moment today

by waferkya



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Psychic Bond, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Zayn is a little bit psychic and friendship is the best kind of love ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I just think we should stay stuck in the moment today

Liam is thirsty, his throat a little scratchy from all the singing. Zayn, sprawled on the couch maybe two feets away, hands out his own water bottle, which Niall would describe as half full, Louis as half empty and Harry as twice as big as it needs to be; Liam grabs it and drinks in big gulps, without a word passing between the two of them.

He grins instead of saying thank you, and Zayn just ducks his head and goes back to reading.

This thing works in so many ways, like he can pinpoint any of the boys’ exact location without skipping a beat, or, slightly less amazing-ly, he ended up sick too when Niall caught that horrible stomach flu; Zayn has been doing it for as long as he can remember, and if the boys find it weird that he always knows where they left the book they where reading or who ate the last spoonful of ice cream, they haven’t said anything.

And anyway, if any of them had caught up with him, Zayn would know. Zayn always knows.

 

Louis is the loudest.

Zayn is not surprised, because Louis is like the end of the summer, softening into autumn already around the edges; he’s the sunny afternoon when you just can’t keep ignoring the stack of homework you haven’t been doing, and the moment you pour on the books, the scent of chlorine lingering in the air makes you smile and think of pool parties and sunburn.

He’s not a noisy and happy and colourful Sunday morning of beachvolley, because that’s more Niall’s thing, Zayn thinks; Louis is that one last awkward kiss you share sitting on warm sand in perfect silence, the sea lapping gently at your toes as it grows a little cold and the setting sun sets the sky ablaze in orange and yellow. Louis is a hug that lingers a moment too long when the train is just about to leave, taking away your one best friend in the world, and the knot in your throat keeps you from saying the most important thing but it’s still sort of okay because how could they not know? Of course they know.

Louis is loud as in every little thing he does speaks millions of words; there’s nothing casual in his glances, in his every touch, in the random words sometimes he’ll scribble on the inside of your arm. He’s just there all the time, with his meaningful everything, the unspoken support and devotion he won’t ever put into words, and Zayn can’t stand being around him sometimes, he’s screaming so loud. He sinks a little more into the couch, when it happens, and shuffles closer to Louis, because the affection pouring from him makes everything so much worse, but it’s also the only cure.

 

It hits him hard one icy November afternoon, for no reason at all except the fact that winter kicked in and the sun is so very cold; Zayn curls up on himself and he doesn’t even know where or who the sudden rush of _losslonelinesschokingsadness_ comes from. He grinds his teeth and he tries to will it away, which never worked before and obviously doesn’t start working right now.

Niall walks out of the kitchen with a brightly orange cup of steaming tea which he almost drops on his own feet when he sees Zayn scrunched up like that, holding his stomach like he’s got cramps or he’s dying or something.

“Oi,” Niall calls out, putting away the tea and rushing to his side; Zayn is overwhelmed by his concern and it almost makes him laugh. “You okay? What’s going on?”

“’m fine,” he manages to breathe, and he’d like to say something else, talk Niall out of the slight panic that’s creeping up on him, but all he can think of is, _God please make it stop, whoever it is just fucking stop being so sad already_ , so Zayn just shuts up.

He would know, if it was one of the boys; he would know and he doesn’t, so it can’t be any of them, which makes him feel a tiny bit better.

Niall bites his lip and says, “I made tea, do you maybe want some?”

Zayn doesn’t think he could sit up properly long enough to drink some tea, but he knows Niall just wants to help, you don’t need a diploma from the Xavier Institute to fucking see that; he nods, biting back a moan, and Niall nods back, gives him a little smile before walking back to where he left the cup.

“Here,” he says, setting it on the coffee table in front of the couch and then reaching out to grab Zayn by his shoulders. Zayn flinches and tries to recoil, but the back of the couch keeps him from going anywhere, and before he can say anything, Niall’s got a hold of him. “Can you sit up? Is it okay?”

Zayn doesn’t have the heart to tell him anything except “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine, thanks,” so Niall lifts him up and thankfully, the spasms in Zayn’s stomach are wearing off a little, the wave that’s punching him starts to get weaker.

Niall feeds him tea and sits with him on the couch until some colour is back to Zayn’s cheeks, and then he just stays there because he doesn’t really have to be anywhere else.

He rubs soothing circles into Zayn’s neck and shoulders, and he doesn’t say anything, which is absolutely fine.

 

Harry’s hair keeps getting into his eyes and he trips on the stairs twice in one day; the first time, he catches himself almost in time and the hilarious consequence of it is that he dances clumsily through half the living room trying to keep his balance. The second time, however, gets ugly and tragic, because he’s carrying upstairs a plateful of some very glorious cupcakes, and he makes a mess of the stairs, the floor, and obviously himself.

The plate was Louis’ favourite, too, and Zayn feels a sharp knife of disappointment run through his lungs; he ignores it, and walks to help Harry up. Liam then produces an orange bobbypin out of nowhere, and briskly shoves it into the thick mess of Harry’s bangs, tucking it back and over his ear.

“Thanks, I guess,” Harry says, touching a hesitant hand to the brand new lump on the side of his head.

Liam beams at him and shrugs. “No problem.”

Zayn feels wonderfully warm.

 

He’s been sitting outside smoking for the better half of the afternoon, because there’s nobody to tell him not to; it’s that simple, and in the soundless breathing in and out he almost loses track of himself and the world out there.

The door on his left slides open with a soft murmur and Zayn is not surprised at all when he looks up and all he sees is Liam.

“Sorry,” Liam says, and he walks the short distance to the railing, leaning into it and tilting himself forward, like he’s wondering if he could throw himself off the balcony with enough momentum to fly. He turns around and adds, “I didn’t know you were here.”

Zayn gives him a tiny dimpled smile that says, _I’m not buying it, Payne, not even in a million years_. Liam ducks his head and chuckles. “Okay,” he admits. “Maybe I knew.”

“That sounds about right,” Zayn says, not unkindly. He stands up and moves to the railing too, his back to the world; he shifts a little closer to Liam, who’s warm and smells nice, like he just walked out of a shower or maybe an oven, because there’s definitely an hint of honey-and-apple scent coming from him.

Liam asks in a wishper, “You okay?” just as Zayn says, “I like your shampoo.”

They grin at each other for a second, and then Liam pulls back his concerned face, which makes Zayn choke on smoke a little.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, and he means it, even though he didn’t think about it quite enough to convince Liam, too. The patented Payne frown is, in fact, still in place.

“You know you can tell me, right?” Liam says, quietly. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me. Anything, yeah?”

Zayn sighs and puts out his cigarette against the underside of the railing before flicking it off behind his back; Liam flinches a little and Zayn can’t help but smile at the sudden rush to dive behind the stub, collect it and throw it into the trash that hits him. Liam is seriously helpless.

“Okay,” Zayn admits, and he has all of Liam’s undiluted attention. He gives a deep, theatrical sigh. “Your socks, Liam. My eyes are bleeding.”

Liam looks down at his own feet and his cheeks burn a pretty shade of pink when he realizes his slippers do nothing to hide the mismatched pair of orange socks he’s wearing.

“Oh, shut up,” he mutters, playfully shoving at Zayn’s shoulder.

Zayn laughs and shoves him back, so Liam hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him closer; he’s insanely warm against Zayn, and he’s very much real, but what feels absolutely the best is that he’s just so, so happy to be there.

 

Live shows are the worst.

Zayn used to think, _it’ll get better in time_. (It doesn’t.) Zayn used to tell himself, _I’ll get stronger, in time_. (He does; he gets so, so good at shutting everything and everyone out, and nevermind the fact that he feels trapped and blind and like the inside of his body is turning into charcoal. Nevermind the fact that when he takes down the walls, after the show, after every show, it all comes rushing up to him and he feels _everything_ and sometimes he thinks that being shot wouldn’t hurt this much. Nevermind.)

He locks himself in the toilet and throws up until he’s dizzy; Harry comes knocking on the door, then Louis, then it’s Niall and Liam together asking if he’s all right and what can they do to help. Zayn’s head is swimming and he couldn’t come up with words to save his life. He can hear them muttering and he can feel their concern.

He drags himself upright, stumbles past the sink and turns on the shower. He steps into the water spray before it has a chance to turn even slightly less freezing, and he’s grateful for the soaking clothes weighing his shoulders down. He’s grateful for the shivers and the goosebumps which are only and exclusively his own; he’s grateful to be back to his body and his senses.

He’s grateful he can still feel the sharp spike of their concern in the back of his neck, and when he finally gets out of the bathroom, he’s grateful that they’re still out there, waiting for him. He doesn’t think that they know, he doesn’t think that they even realize it, but they do. They always do.  



End file.
